


Better Far

by Truth



Category: Anthony Hope - Zenda series
Genre: F/M, Kidnapping, M/M, Violence, Yuletide, canon character death, challenge:Yuletide 2008, recipient:Ione
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-26
Updated: 2010-10-26
Packaged: 2017-10-12 21:40:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/129369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Truth/pseuds/Truth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We glared at each other, at dagger points over our mutual betrayal by that charming, oh so charming, cad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Better Far

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ione](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ione/gifts).



> With grateful thanks to Hhertzof, Eleanor, bearilou and Jess.

  


## Better Far

  
Fandom: [Anthony Hope - Zenda series](http://yuletidetreasure.org/get_fandom_quicksearch.cgi?Fandom=Anthony%20Hope%20-%20Zenda%20series)

  
Written for: Ione in the Yuletide 2008 Challenge

by [Truth](http://yuletidetreasure.org/cgi-bin/contact.cgi?filename=70/betterfar)  


With grateful thanks to Hhertzof, Eleanor, bearilou and Jess.

Love, so they say, makes fools of us all. I am not the greatest of those fools, but I am surely not the least. Worst, I was a willing fool and I have reaped what I did sow, so many years past.

It is a foolish thing, to damn oneself by putting such confessions down on paper, but these events are long passed and other accounts have since come to light. None of them mentioned the young widow of a once-promising poet, and why should they? The plight of a nameless woman in Paris had nothing to do with the coronation of Rudolph V, nor had one Amelia Pioche any connection to Ruritania or the momentous, secret proceedings surrounding that same, false, coronation.

Love murdered Rudolph V, however coincidentally. Love shot and killed Rudolph Rassendyll. Love destroyed Queen Flavia, doomed by her own desperate, hungry need for the single man she could not have and, cruelly, left her to face the aftermath alone and desolate.

It is not for the Queen that my heart aches, but I can claim to understand the feelings which drove her to write that fatal letter, as I am writing now. My own words are penned similarly, calling out not to a living man, but one long since dead. No harm can come of the story I have to tell, as it is but a footnote to the events that saved a kingdom, yet destroyed her king.

The coronation of Ruritania's king was the talk of polite society that season. The handsome young king and his lovely queen were understandably of some interest, not least because of the habits of dissipation practiced by the new king before his ascension to the throne and the many rumors surrounding the death of his brother. Compounding that interest was the return of Antoinette de Mauban to Paris.

As a widow of no name and modest income, I hardly moved in the same social circles as the former mistress of a duke. My own social exposure, both as a foreigner and a recent widow, was small indeed but my marriage had been for love. My husband had made me known to his own friends during our short time together and they made it their business to be certain I did not spend all my time alone with my sorrow. Paris was still a strange place to me, but they exerted themselves to help me make it my home.

The few social events I could be coaxed to attend were both small and concerned mostly with poetry, art or music. Paul had been a poet, after all, and the majority of his friends were artists of one stripe or another. The first and last time the majestic figure of Mme de Mauban crossed my path directly was at a small salon where I was to meet Auguste Rodin. That meeting, much cherished and momentous as it was, in retrospect, became entirely overshadowed by other events of the night.

Paris, in the latter days of the nineteenth century, was a place overflowing with artists, writers and playwrights, many of whom never received the recognition which their skill deserved while they lived. In the course of a week you might cross paths with any number of men and women of perfectly average appearance and never suspect the genius which drove them. They were exciting times and, while I was a no one, you needed no title or vast sums of money to socialize with some of the most fascinating people of the age. Many straddled the line of poverty and lack of birth without shame, their eyes fixed only on the glory of their dreams.

To this day I cannot recall from whence the invitation came or even who was hosting the gathering that afternoon. It was one of the grander events that I'd attended since my arrival in Paris. There were a great number of artists and an equal number of interested outsiders like myself, mingling and discussing the artistic developments of the day. Beautiful gowns were a counterpoint to the occasional mended coat and the conversation was both swift and passionate.

I had just secured my desired introduction to the controversial sculptor when my elbow was plucked by my brother. His duty to see me properly escorted brought him to all of these events, despite his complete lack of interest in the arts, led me to assume that he wanted my attention in order to find out how much longer he must suffer here before we could depart. I ignored the tug, concentrating instead upon the conversation. I did not clearly realize my mistake until Mlle Gaudet stopped in mid-sentence, looking over my shoulder with wide eyes.

Howard obligingly touched my elbow again, giving me a polite excuse to turn and see what had created that slowly widening circle of silence. Close by the fire, where mulled wine was made available by our hostess, stood a tall, striking woman and a handsome young man. Perfectly still, each with a hand almost touching the steaming drink offered by a puzzled looking young man, they stared at each other. Her face was touched by a combination of fury and fear while his....

I will never forget the mixture of bitter triumph and wicked humor on his face as, suddenly, he moved. His fingers closed over hers and he bent swiftly to press his lips against her gloved hand even as she drew it away.

My view of what happened next, despite my entirely unladylike gawking, was obscured both by the intervention of the lady's escort and my brother's excited jostling of my arm. While words were exchanged by the punch bowl, Howard murmured, "Now would be the politic moment to withdraw, I think?"

"Opportunist," I accused, knowing full well that it had probably been a true struggle between his sense of mischief and love of gossip and the god-sent chance to escape a gathering I knew he found deadly dull.

I allowed him to escort me away, however, with a slight pause to recover my wrap. Still adjusting to the milder winters of Paris, I tended to walk whenever I could instead of bearing the expense of horses and a carriage. Howard deplored this habit, but as he had no intention of helping to defray the cost, walking it must be. We set off down the street but had barely reached the next house before Howard began to talk, as I knew he would.

"I can't believe the fellow's gall." There was an admiring tone to the words which I did not much like, but speaking at this juncture would simply cause Howard to go off on a tangent about my prudish ways, so I held my tongue. Encouraged by my silence, Howard continued. "That was Antoinette de Mauban. You remember her of course?"

I did not, but wisely held my tongue. Ever since childhood, Howard had loved to carry tales and was very popular with the older ladies for his enjoyment of scandalous gossip. He was popular with the younger ladies as he was handsome and agreeable and always ready with a pretty compliment. He looked particularly well at the moment, slightly flushed and eyes sparking; a direct counterpoint to the sordid tale he was unfolding.

Without any encouragement on my part, he continued, warming to his story in a way that any familiar to him would correctly interpret as the prelude to something particularly wicked

"When she ran off to Ruritania after that Duke, everyone was certain it would come to ruin, as it did." He made a tossing gesture with his hands and sighed dramatically. "Not as predicted, of course. Instead of publicly making a fool of herself or the Duke casting her off, he got himself killed - murdered, it's whispered."

That _did_ raise my eyebrows. "Murdered? Surely that would have been in the news?"

"What, killed by another man in a fight over a woman no better than she should be?" Howard was incredulous, turning to walk backward as he gestured at me. "Or worse!"

"How could it be worse?" I inquired, well used to the theatrics of my younger brother and willing to humor his

He ignored the question, nearly tripping as he tried to watch my reaction to the story and walk at the same time. "However his Grace, the Duke of Strelsau met his end, the consensus is that he was done in, as they say, by the Count of Hentzau, one Rupert by name."

I remembered the looks on the faces of de Mauban and the man confronting her and forestalled the juicy revelation already on his lips. "But - he's so _young_."

Howard scowled, displeased that I'd come to the crux of his story before the grand reveal. "But old in _sin_."

Words that doubtlessly gave a deliciously breathless shock to his normal audience, they had not the same result with me. I spoiled the effect, irretrievably, with an unladylike burst of laughter. "Oh, Howard!" I did not attempt to hide my amused disappointment. "'Old in sin'?"

The scowl became a pout and he turned on his heel, falling in beside me. "It's true!" he insisted sullenly. "Rousseau and Leveque say that - "

I cut him off with a sigh. "No more, Howard." We walked in silence for some little way as I considered the story. Loathe as I was to consider the men with whom Howard preferred to spend his time as a reliable source of information, I could not dismiss the angry fear on her face or the bitterness on his.

By the time we reached the steps of our own modest house, my imagination had conjured forth a hundred scenarios, each more unhappy than the last. Perhaps it was her fear that kept my thoughts churning. Perhaps knowing that she too had lost the man that she loved kept her face before my mind's eye. Whatever the cause, Antoinette de Mauban was still very much in my thoughts when we sat down to an early dinner.

After serving, Walton left me alone with our simple repast and a brother who was working himself into a truly spectacular fit of the sullens. Howard had always been indulged, both by our parents and by his friends. Used to being the center of attention, he did not take well to being laughed at and the thought of being dismissed was somehow worse.

I waited until he had sufficiently mangled his dinner without, of course, actually eating anything. His performance was a well-practiced one and when he slumped down in his chair I knew exactly what would come from his lips next. I was a terrible and unnatural sister not to hang on his every word, with appropriate exclamations of horror and alarm. I didn't understand him, nor appreciate the lengths to which he had extended himself in order to regale me with that juicy tidbit. After he'd so kindly escorted me to an event at which he had been bored stiff....

As his mouth opened, reproach at the ready, I asked, "Do you truly believe that the Count killed the Duke?"

The unhappy scowl shifted abruptly to a look of surprise. "Is that an expression of interest, or are you merely attempting to mollify me?"

I could not repress a smile. "I am truly interested, Howard. He did not seem the sort of man to move in your usual circles. Where ever did you run up against such a tale?"

Howard did not take offence at my skepticism. I was willing to indulge him in a story that he was bursting to tell, and he would take what he could get. Puffing up a little under the attention, he began, "It is not the gentlemen of the story, but the _lady_ who arouses interest. She left a great many broken hearts behind when she fixed her interest on the Duke." He was smiling now, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table, fingers laced together just beneath his chin. "Not that Hentzau isn't said to enjoy the occasional game of chance."

His smile faded a little and he flashed me a guilty look at the admission. He well knew that I disapproved of his friends and their habits. They gambled to freely, drank to excess and, in short, were a far cry from the company that I would have chosen for my brother. Games of chance were not a topic of which I approved. Open censure would close Howard's lips, so I found a smile instead and asked, coaxingly, "Then how...?"

He was only too happy to tell me.

The stately figure of Antoinette de Mauban had many admirers, among them Howard's friend Andre Leveque. Feeling particularly slighted at her sudden interest in Ruritania's Duke of Strelsau, he had discovered her return to France with particular interest. Exerting himself in a way that I had not thought him capable, he had pursued answers from his sister's husband, a promising young man in the Corps Diplomatique in order to learn what truly lay behind it all.

"Truthfully," Howard conceded, "it is nothing but the most specious of rumors, but it comes to this. Firstly, the Duke is dead, apparently mid-revolt against his brother, the newly crowned King. Secondly, the young Count, Rupert, has been banished. This is something not widely known outside of diplomatic circles, and you'd think that if he had brought down a traitor to his king, he wouldn't be suddenly persona non grata in his own country. More, his rents have been seized, so he's without a penny to his name. Thirdly, and this is the telling bit, on the very first occasion that the lovely Antoinette can be found out in society, venturing to throw off her lonely mourning - "

Howard cut himself off as I hastily pressed my napkin to my lips to hide the laugh that threatened to break free. Story in full swing, he contented himself this time with a glare instead of taking dramatic offense. "Her _lonely mourning_ , who should appear to confront her but the cock-sure cad? She did not," his eyes sparkling as his good mood soared again, "seem pleased to see him."

"No," I agreed softly, thinking of the fear I'd seen flash across her face, "she did not."

There the matter rested for some few weeks. Antoinette de Mauban, said the gossips, had retired from Paris entirely. With the absence of his object of interest, the Count had also departed, vanishing as abruptly as he'd arrived. A touch of lingering sympathy for the lady remained with me, but there were more pressing matters with which to occupy my time and the strange story eventually slipped from immediate memory.

\--

I led a quiet life during the first few years following my husband's death. We'd been married less than a year, all of it in France. I had never left England before and, despite the efforts of Paul's friends to make me feel at home, I was unused to society at large. More often than not, I spent my evenings alone with Paul's library, wanting to learn more about his world and all the things that had brought him here, to Paris, to pursue his dreams.

Do not mistake me, I did not lack for company. I lunched with Paul's friends often, and they slowly became my own. I went to the museums and to the salons, though not as often as I might. It was a strange new world, and I wished to become a part of it, as Paul had. My pace was slow, but I had become happy with this new place - happier that I was not alone in it.

Howard had a great many faults, but lack of loyalty was not one of them. He had arrived a fortnight after Paul's death and declared that I could not live alone in Paris. "A pretty young widow, alone? Perish the thought!"

Between Paul's legacy and the small income left me by our parents, I could keep house for us both - or Marthe could. We had two maids, a cook and Paul's elderly butler sharing the house with us. We were comfortable, despite Howard's tendency to spend his own income exclusively on clothing and various diversions.

I often sat up late into the night, not because I was enthralled by my choice of reading matter, but because I could not rest easy until Howard returned. I had little faith in his choice of companions, for though Howard had a good heart and the best of intentions, he wished more than anything to be praised and admired and this made him easily influenced. By everyone save his sister, that is.

It was not unusual, therefore, for me to be awake in the small hours, with a selection of poems by Matthew Arnold for company. The servants, now used to my odd habits, had retired some time before, and I was alone in the parlor with a banked fire and the whisper of cold rain against the nearby window. The poetry was not entirely to my taste and, curled by the fire, I was fighting sleep. Wrapped in a comfortable robe and with a blanket across my lap, I found myself dreamily watching the faint gutter of a far-away streetlamp through the haze of water running down the glass.

My cozy reverie was shattered by a flurry of rapid, unsteady knocks at the front door. Perhaps Howard had lost his key? It would hardly be the first time. Reluctantly putting aside my blanket, I rose and made my way to the door. My progress was apparently not fast enough, as the knocking came again. I hurried my steps and, after a momentary fumbling with the latch, threw the door wide.

What I found on the other side caused my breath to catch in my throat.

Two young men stood upon my doorstep, soaked to the skin by the chill, winter rain. One supported by the other, both liberally streaked with mud, they swayed uneasily before me, shivering. I stared at them, shocked and confused, until recognition struck. "Howard!"

Between the wet and the grime, it was hard to make out the familiar features. Wet strands of hair plastered to his forehead, gaze turned downward, my young brother was relying on his companion entirely for both support and balance.

I was reaching for him when the stranger spoke, his French carrying a heavier accent than my own. "Allow me."

It was not a request. Appropriately chastened at my thoughtlessness, I stepped aside and held the door open for them. "In there." As Howard was supported into the parlor, I closed and latched the door behind them before following. "What - what happened?" I am not ashamed to admit that I was terrified.

"A minor accident." Howard was dropped unceremoniously atop my abandoned blanket and the stranger turned to the fire.

"Minor?" I could not keep the disbelief from my voice as I knelt beside Howard, tugging gently at his coat. "Arms, Howard."

He did not seem able to focus on me as he obediently slumped forward and allowed me to remove his sodden coat.

The noise of the fire being rebuilt was clearly audible as the stranger continued. "A race, between a pair of drunken fools. Your brother was a passenger - and the drive took a turn far too sharply."

"Howard?" I was still trying to get a verbal response out of my brother, using the blanket to mop at his sodden hair and alarmed by his winces at the action.

"Only... bumped my head." Howard took hold of my wrist. "Stop. It hurts."

"The driver was carried off to a physician acquaintance of one of the party. It was judged that... Howard," with an odd hesitation before the name, as if it were unfamiliar to him, "remained well enough to go home."

"Well?" I disagreed strongly with this diagnosis, and Howard winced at my tone.

"I am all _right_ , Amelia. Truly." He made no move to rise, however, and knew full well that he was lying to me.

I repressed the entirely petty desire to demand that, if he were so well, he could rise and take himself to bed. If the party hadn't felt it necessary to take him to the physician.... "I'll fetch Walton."

"Amelia!"

I ignored his protest, quitting the parlor in search of our elderly and entirely phlegmatic butler. Also, belatedly, to find a towel for our unknown guest. On my return to the parlor, I passed Walton and Howard on the stairs, my brother still protesting weakly and Walton, bless him, completely ignoring Howard's bid for independent movement.

"I must offer you my thanks," I said, entering the parlor with the towel over my arm. "Howard would surely wish for you to rest with us tonight, after your exertions in such foul weather."

The fire had been rebuilt to a comfortable blaze during my absence, and the stranger was still on one knee before the hearth, the water from his boots and coat leaving spots of water upon the carpet. He had been warming stiffened fingers and, at my suggestion, turned and rose to his feet. Pushing water-darkened hair out of his eyes, he gave me a half-bow and a murmur of polite thanks that barely registered.

Standing in my parlor, by whatever chance, was Rupert of Hentzau, the banished Count of Ruritania - and I had just invited him to stay. I possess no recollection of the rest of our conversation, of giving him the towel and passing him into Walton's care. My next clear recollection was of sitting before my own mirror, brushing my hair and wondering numbly just what breakfast conversation might be like.

'Did you kill the Duke?'

'Do you still wish to capture the attention of Antoinette de Mauban?'

'Were you actually engaged in high treason?'

I lost a great deal of sleep that night.

\--

Worry, Howard enjoys telling me, ages a woman and leaves her haggard. Dressing for breakfast, I found myself forced to agree with his unkind observations. Lack of sleep had left my appearance closer to my mother's age than my own. After a brief internal struggle with myself, I decided that it did not matter. What were dark circles beneath the eyes when your guest would be forced to appear in borrowed clothing?

I found myself alone at the breakfast table, unsurprisingly. Howard did not rise early unless faced with an ultimatum and after the state he and the Count had arrived in, I did not think that either of them would stir much before noon. Thus it was that I was greatly surprised to find myself joined by our guest before I'd done more than raise a piece of toast from my plate.

Howard's clothing was not a good fit, slightly tight on a man who obviously spent a great deal of time on more physical pursuits than Howard's determined idleness. He did not let the ill-fitting clothes trouble him, giving me a polite nod that was not quite the bow of the night before. "Good morning...?"

I had forgotten the lack of introduction in the emotional tumult of the previous night, and felt my face flush with embarrassment. I rose to my feet, moving to offer my hand, before realizing that it still had a piece of toast in it. With a sudden, shockingly bright smile, he took my hand, toast and all. A brief kiss was pressed to my knuckles - and a _bite_ taken from my toast!

I let him take it, unable to resist smiling in return as he took another bite of the toast. He looked no older than Howard when he smiled, though seen closer to, he seemed nearer my own age. "I am Amelia Pioche, Howard's sister. I would like to thank you again for your kindness in bringing him home."

He cleared his throat and offered a less mischievous smile. "My name is Rupert - "

I interrupted him hastily, and quite rudely I am sorry to admit. " - of Hentzau, Count. I know."

He moved to hold my chair for me, toast held between two fingers. His infectious smile had faded somewhat. "I am infamous, then?"

"You were pointed out to me some few weeks ago." I sat as Walton brought another plate to the table before withdrawing. "I did not recognize you at first."

"It is no wonder, given the mud and rain." He also seated himself, placing what was left of my stolen toast on the edge of the heaping plate. "In truth, it was a second accident that brought me to cross your brother's path, as I was not one of their party." He waited for me to address my own breakfast before reaching for a fork. "Merely a passer-by."

It had been unfair of me to listen to Howard's gossip and judge this man by third-hand stories. A man who had done such horrible things would not have stopped in such weather to help a stranger home - would he? I chose another piece of toast and stole a sidelong look at Rupert. He was applying himself to the meal as if he hadn't eaten in a week, and I remembered also Howard's comments about the Count's penniless state.

The remembered look of fear and anger in the eyes of Antoinette de Mauban gave me pause, however, the words I had been about to offer stilling on my tongue.

A welcome interruption presented itself in the form of my brother, awake hours earlier than I had anticipated, and with a cold cloth pressed to his head. He looked the worse for drink, though I had smelled nothing of the sort about him the night before. Walton was right behind him with a basin of what I assumed to be cold water and another plate.

"Are you certain you should be on your feet, Howard?" I seemed destined not to gain a single bite of my own toast, as Howard, in his turn, plucked this new slice from my fingers on his way to his seat. " _Howard_."

"Good morning," with his mouth full of toast, no less. Howard sat gingerly opposite our guest and dipped his cloth into the bowl Walton set beside him. He took another generous mouthful of toast before getting a good look at his rescuer of the previous night and nearly choked on his breakfast.

It was with a petty sense of revenge that I reached for yet a third slice of toast and offered, "Howard, this is His Excellency, Count Rupert of Hentzau. Your Excellency, this is my brother, Howard Adcock."

Making frantic gestures at me, Howard groped for his tea.

"You may call me Rupert." That infectious smile was tugging at his lips again. "Our meeting, after all, was hardly bound by convention."

Breakfast, once Howard had cleared his throat sufficiently, was a surprisingly pleasant affair. Rupert was an extremely engaging guest and Howard blossomed under the attention of someone so notorious - and so attentive. By the end of the meal, Howard was gesticulating widely to illustrate one of his favorite stories and nearly overset the bowl of water that he was still using to cool the cloth for his head.

"How are you feeling, Howard?" The fact that he was willing to look slightly foolish before our guest indicated that his head must still be very sore, and the look he gave me indicated my guess was correct. "Perhaps you should retire."

Wide eyed, Howard turned to Rupert, dredging up his most engaging smile. "You'll stay, won't you Rupert? Amelia won't mind. We've plenty of room for a guest, and you did say you'd just arrived in Paris?"

He had, in fact, admitted that he'd no lodgings when I'd asked if I could send for his luggage so that he might be more comfortable. Howard shot me an imploring look as I hesitated and, having been placed into a corner, I smiled at Rupert. "You must lodge with us while you are in Paris. It is the least we can do."

To this day, I wonder what the future might have been if I had held firm to my original impulse and sent Rupert of Hentzau from my door. I am a fool. Despite the tears which followed, I still cannot bring myself to truly regret Howard's offer or my agreement.

\--

Howard remained in bed for two days before getting the better of his headache and declaring, somewhat petulantly, that he was tired of being a prisoner. Rising, he dressed and vanished off to some gathering or other which would, undoubtedly, end in his being separated from some undisclosed sum of money. I felt it best not to inquire into my younger brother's finances.

Being hostess to a Count was not the difficult task you might suspect. Not in this particular instance, at any rate. His few belongings were easily settled in our guest room and, after that, I saw him rarely save at the breakfast table. He placed no strange demands on our servants, always polite and perfectly correct when our paths crossed.

A week following the arrival of our guest, Howard appeared at the table for lunch. He bore an expression of suppressed excitement as he threw himself into his chair and reached for a fork. "It seems Rupert's reputation is well-deserved."

In truth, I hadn't thought about Rupert's unsavory past after our second breakfast together. He had a way of paying attention which made you feel nothing existed outside that moment and possessed considerable charm to back up that impression.

"He killed someone?" The words were out before I realized what they'd be and I feel I deserved the look of scorn that Howard directed at me. I flushed.

"He has a brand new horse." Howard grinned at me. "And a great deal of money to spend. Would you care to guess from where this bounteous gift came?"

I had never been good at guessing games, even as a child. I gave Howard a dark look. "The King of Ruritania has released his lands and rents?"

Howard's grin became wicked. "He has become very _close_ friends with Mme de Valarat."

I stared at him, appalled. "Howard!"

"Oh, it can't possibly be a shock." Howard scoffed and sank down in his chair. "You knew he was without funds - and you knew that he had a fondness for older women. All he had to do was smile and offer to escort her to a few parties. You know her husband has no time for her."

"I didn't know anything of the sort," I responded, somewhat numbly. "You, I mean _he_... how do you know this?"

He greeted my question with a flip of his fingers. "Rousseau knows de Valarat. _He_ said that the old man was actually pleased that she'd found an outside interest. This way she'd stop pestering him to spend less time with the President and more with her."

I would have laughed if I weren't still somewhat shocked. "That's so...."

"Clever? Unscrupulous?"

" _Sordid_." The idea of treason and murder was suddenly pushed far to the rear of any suspicions I might have had. For some reason it had been easier to believe that he might have killed a man for whatever misguided reason of loyalty and politics than to believe he had done the same over another man's mistress. Now?

"Oh come. If a pretty woman did the same, you'd...." His voice trailed off and his grin faded. "No, you'd react exactly the same way. My apologies, Amelia."

A somewhat uncomfortable silence fell between us until Howard ventured to ask, "Will you ask him to leave?"

It was a good question, truthfully. Knowledge of such entirely amoral and shocking behavior would have any woman of breeding showing him the door. Then again, a woman of breeding _wouldn't_ know about it, and Rupert had certainly been discreet enough that no whisper of this had come to my ears.

Until Howard had felt it his duty to enlighten me.

He took my silence as acquiescence and offered, wheedling, "Come now, Amelia. He's pleasant enough company."

"By which you mean he pays you attention and encourages your bad habits." My heart wasn't in the jibe, and Howard detected it with the unerring accuracy that younger brothers only display when it is to their advantage.

"So he _will_ stay on!"

"You sound far too pleased with that conclusion." I stared him down. "As long as he continues to behave like a gentleman while beneath my roof, I have no reason to expel him."

Howard was back to grinning like an imp, ignoring both my expression and my warning. I knew my brother, and it was my turn to act on that impulse that siblings have to instinctively thwart each other. "Why does this delight you, Howard?"

"Because I like Rupert - and because _he_ is a sporting man."

"He hasn't had money to spend for more than a few days and you already wish him to gamble it away?"

I'm afraid we descended to bickering like children at that point. I did not approve of Howard's growing admiration for Rupert. Howard did not see why I was attempting to ruin his 'harmless' fun. Name-calling and outrageous accusations went back and forth for some few minutes before we reached a truce.

In the end, Rupert stayed, Harold promised not to gamble away _all_ of his money (or Rupert's) and I firmly closed my eyes and ears to anything that might happen outside of my home.

This was a decision that I would come to bitterly regret.

\--

Rupert continued to be charming at breakfast and Howard soon learned not to gossip about whatever our guest had been up to when he finally rose himself, far closer to lunch. In truth, aside from a minor rise in the household bills, Rupert's affect on our lives was barely noticeable. Perhaps my isolation from the circles within society that Rupert and my brother moved in contributed to my ignorance as things developed. Perhaps I was willfully blind to what was going on around me.

The veil was torn forcibly from my eyes on the morning that I came to breakfast late and met Rupert upon the stairs. My usual morning greeting froze on my lips as he looked up at me and we paused, gazing at each other. There was blood on Rupert's coat, which was torn in more than one place, and a sheathed sword in his hand. I had surprised a grim, tired look on his face and, midst the shock caused by his appearance, I felt a small stab of concern.

His expression changed as he took in my reaction. What that reaction was, I've no clear idea to this day - but it did not please him. His lip curled scornfully, his chin came up and he stepped forward. Far too close for propriety, the stairs putting us eye to eye, he leaned toward me and whispered, "Disappointed?"

This was a tactical error on his part. Confronted with the obvious aftermath of violence, I might have reacted with shock, horror and possibly even fear. I might have slapped him, or demanded that he leave my home. I might have done half a dozen things, but that deliberate, bitter _taunt_ jabbed at my temper.

"I'll assume," and I could hear the frost in my own voice, "that it was a duel and not a matter of cold-blooded slaughter. Dueling is illegal, Your Excellency, and not a trait to be desired in a guest."

His scorn had faded to surprise as I raised my own chin, but I did not give him the opportunity to speak. "If you allow Howard to find out about this, or give him even the slightest idea that dueling or fighting of any sort is admirable, I will... I will smother you in your sleep."

He laughed, suddenly, humor overtaking his surprise and wiping away the bitterness entirely. "So you aren't about to toss me out onto the street, then?"

I was not amused, and already regretting my decision. "Not yet. You will oblige me by not drawing that sword again while you sleep under my roof."

"I will fight no more duels while you are my hostess." Rupert swiftly took my hand, bringing it to his lips before I could pull it away. As I drew breath for a scathing response, he released me and was past me, taking the stairs two at a time and _laughing_.

I stayed upon the stairs for several minutes, nearly rigid with fury. A great deal of my discontent was self-directed. Gratitude had brought Rupert under my roof, with a bit of encouragement from Howard, but I had no real reason to allow him to stay. For the first time in weeks, I saw again the expression that Antoinette de Mauban wore as Rupert kissed _her_ hand, reminded not only by the identical press of his lips against my hand, but by the bitterness in his eyes.

He expected me to lash out at him, to be cast out. He had been certain that I would judge him, without any thought or explanation - and I had. Perhaps that's why I found myself unable to carry through, despite my fury.

I swept down the stairs, collected my coat and left the house before I could truly lose my temper.

\--

I took my breakfast alone in my room for the next few days. Howard's one attempt to discuss the juicy rumor concerning the sudden ending of an illicit romance due to the death of the young man was met with a frosty request not to spread malicious gossip.

After that, my luncheons were taken alone as well.

My ill mood was noted by my friends and they responded by issuing me more frequent invitations. I dined out more frequently in the following weeks than I had in the previous months, spending almost every evening at the home of one friend or another. I kept to my previous habit of walking, when my engagements were close at hand, and this tendency led me to an exceedingly unpleasant discovery.

As I returned from dining at the home of my good friend, Adele Rondelet, escorted by her husband, we noted a pair of somewhat disreputable men in the street. This was hardly an uncommon occurrence, in and of itself. The difference in this case was that they were blocking the path of Marthe, my cook. From the look of it, they were giving her an unpleasant time of it.

Rondelet approached them, demanding their business, as I went to hurry Marthe into the house. She was an older woman, again a servant who had stayed with me after Paul's death. A sweet, practical, motherly figure, it was a shock to see her on the street so late.

"Why were you out at this hour, Marthe?" I swung the door closed behind us as she set her bag on the table and removed her coat.

"I was hoping to avoid those two," she confessed, giving the closed door a worried look. "They've been somewhere about for several days now. The girls," referring to our two maids, "only go out when Walton is available to escort them."

I was shocked and disquieted. "Has Walton not reported them to the police?"

"Twice." Marthe began unpacking her bags, which must have been filled hours before, as the merchants would have closed and locked their doors hours ago. "They came, but those, those _ruffians_ vanished like morning mist."

"What do they want?" I slowly removed my own coat and sat at the table, watching Marthe's efforts.

"They ask questions about yourself and Mr. Adcock and the Count." Marthe sniffed disapprovingly as she worked. "They have been bothering all the servants on the street."

Shocked and alarmed, I struggled to find a reason for this interest. "We have nothing of value to attract burglars, we have no particular political affiliation, we hardly move in affluent circles...?"

Marthe gave me a surprisingly cynical look, but did not actually tell me that I was a fool. She did not have to, after all, it was obvious from the look on her face.

"You think this has to do with the Count."

"It is not my place to speculate upon His Excellency's personal doings," she informed me primly, but her mouth was a thin line of disapproval.

"I will have Howard speak to the police." It was a shame, but the request of a gentleman would probably receive a more thorough response than one by his servants. "The next time you must go out, Marthe, take a carriage. Until this is resolved, I will pay for any such expenses."

Howard did speak to the police, and they sent several men to investigate, but the offenders were nowhere to be found. I found this almost more upsetting than their obvious presence the night before. Rondelet had gotten no satisfactory answers out of the men when he'd confronted them. They'd insisted that they'd been merely asking for directions, and he let them go before learning of Marthe's story.

I waited at breakfast that next morning to ask Rupert if he knew anything of it, but he apparently had accepted an invitation to lodge out of town for several days. I was left temporarily without answers.

\--

"Rupert will be back early." Howard had invited himself into my room and was amusing himself by sorting through the items on my dressing table, much to my annoyance.'

"Will he?" I had been anxiously awaiting his return, despite my still simmering anger. "How do you know?"

"There was an accident." Howard obviously had a great many juicy details to share, but I forestalled him by raising my hand. With a hurt look at my reflection in the mirror he continued, somewhat sullenly, "Their host was thrown from his horse. Broke quite a few bones and nearly his neck. There are whispers that it wasn't an accident at all."

Alarmed, I turned to look at Howard directly, hairbrush forgotten in my hand. "How do you _know_?" I repeated.

"Lady Servais returned this morning, apparently, and regaled her daughter's luncheon party with all the gory details. Leveque was among those gathered for the event, and he said her ladyship was completely to pieces over the entire affair." Howard did not seem to be taking quite as much glee in the story as usual and I wondered if it was because he had truly become attached to Rupert.

"Do you think it was an accident?"

He considered the question before shaking his head. "I don't know. It's not the first odd incident in the past week, however. One of Rosseau's cousins was set on by footpads just a few nights back." He cast a furtive, almost apologetic glance at me. "We'd been playing cards and he'd won a great deal of money. They found him half-dead in the street, but none of his winnings had been stolen!"

My normal inclination to scold was set sharply aside. "Not young...?" I had to grope for the name. "Young... Veron?"

Howard blinked, surprised. "I didn't know he'd made an impression."

He hadn't - but he bore a passing resemblance to a certain Ruritanian Count and, in the dark? My thoughts must have been clear upon my face, for Howard drew a slow breath, letting it hiss between his teeth. "Those two vagabonds are still hanging about our street, for all that they've become more subtle. I begin to think that they're waiting for something, or someone, in particular."

I turned slowly back to my mirror, brush forgotten in my hand, and I stared at my own reflection. I could see another face for a moment, with the same expression of fear. I knew what it was now, as I felt events spiraling out of control around me. "Yes," I agreed absently, closing my eyes so I would no longer have to see that look upon my own face. "I think so."

\--

For all of my insistence that Marthe take a hired carriage for her errands and allowing Walton to escort the maids to and fro, I changed none of my own habits. Perhaps it was pride on my part, or simple stubbornness. Whatever the underlying cause, it was also extremely foolish, as I learned to my dismay that very evening.

I had been dining again with Adele and her husband and some five of our mutual friends. The conversation had been lively, despite my determination to have some answers from Rupert if I had to sit up all night in order to ambush him upon his return. As the evening ended, Rondelet offered me the use of his carriage, but I declined. Several of the men offered to walk me home, but my host was the most insistent. Together we set out into the night. We were within site of my modest home when we heard a shattering of glass and a feminine scream.

My companion was off without so much as a glance back. I was aware of his chivalrous tendencies and not in the least surprised at his reaction. My internal debate as to whether I should continue to my home to wait or to follow was rudely interrupted by a rough embrace and a horrible, choking sensation.

That was the last I knew for some time.

\--

I have no recollection of the hours that followed, nor have I ever discovered what happened during that lost time. In truth, I do not wish to know. Frightened, distressed and confused, it is an experience I am just as pleased not to be forced to carry with me.

The first thing that I do remember, between the nausea and a throbbing headache, is Howard's voice. Muffled and faraway, he sounded both angry and afraid. I wanted to tell him not to shout, but I couldn't seem to muster up enough energy even to whisper.

When I finally forced my eyes to open, it was to see the ceiling of my own bedchamber. Someone had lit the lamp beside the bed and things were still oddly out of focus. I felt sick and confused, a state which was not much relieved by the face of a stranger leaning over me.

"Mme Pioche?" He frowned down at me, adjusting his glasses. "How do you feel?"

"Who," it took me two tries to manage the word, through a throat that seemed dry as a desert. "Who are you?"

"For the moment, I am your physician." The doctor took my hand and turned it, seeking my pulse. "How do you feel?"

"Terrible."

"I am not at all surprised," he told me dryly. A teacup with tepid water within was offered to me and I accepted it gratefully. "Mr. Adcock informs me that you were drugged, by an unknown assailant, and found unconscious in the street."

I could not remember anything to the contrary and contented myself by smiling wanly up at the doctor. "Howard?"

"I'm here, Amelia." Howard's voice came from across the room. As I turned toward his voice, I discovered that he looked as tired as he sounded. "Doctor?"

The doctor withdrew, not without a caution about stressing me too much after my 'ordeal', and Howard came to sit on the edge of my bed. He took my teacup and then my hand, although thankfully did not attempt to find my pulse. "What happened?"

He shook his head. "I don't know. One of the maids saw two men pushing you into the back of a cart and promptly had hysterics. By the time I came home myself, Walton had contacted the police."

It was hard to follow through the fog in my mind. I couldn't make sense of it. "But... I'm home?"

"We can thank Rupert for that." Howard couldn't seem to decide whether to be resentful or admiring. "He arrived before the police did, took in the entire story, and left again."

I still wasn't following the thread of his story. "Then how - ?"

"I don't _know_." This time he was definitely resentful. "He told me to meet him outside the cathedral, and a long, cold wait it was. When he finally appeared, he had you over his shoulder, in a _sack_ , and didn't seem disposed to explanations!"

My pride took a decided, painful hit. "A sack." The image conjured by Howard's words made me wonder how I could ever raise my head in public again.

"It _was_ nearly dawn, Amelia." A curse on that sensitivity to mood my brother sometimes shows. Despite his worry and upset, he was smiling. "I doubt anyone but me witnessed your embarrassing arrival."

I closed my eyes with an unhappy sigh. "The doctor?"

"Walton summoned him from somewhere. He has a good reputation." Howard patted my hand awkwardly. "He said you'll be all right with a few days of rest."

"The police?" There was an awkward silence, and I thought about mustering the strength to be more clear, but decided it was too much effort.

"I felt it best to tell them it was a mistake," Howard admitted hesitantly. "I... I don't know what action Rupert took for your rescue and I thought it would be in poor taste to cause the police to take an interest in his adventures."

I was too tired to follow Howard's logic entirely, and settled for nodding vaguely.

I must have fallen asleep after that, as when I woke again, the curtains were drawn back and sunlight streamed brightly into the room. My head still ached, but I no longer felt as if the world was painfully muffled in heavy cotton.

"Not yet at your best, I see." The voice wasn't one I had been expecting, especially not at my bedside. I dragged my covers up to my chin and turned to glare at its possessor.

Rupert was sitting on the edge of my bed, a breakfast tray in hand - eating what could only be _my_ breakfast toast.

My indignation must have been obvious, for he gave me a truly wicked smile and took another, obvious bite. I owed him my life, presumably. I couldn't begrudge him some breakfast, although I had no intention of letting him make free of my toast without answering a few vital questions.

"What happened?" I demanded, voice not as strong as I would have liked. For the answers I wanted, I could ignore the complete impropriety of his presence in my bedroom - at least for a few minutes.

He helped himself to my tea, placing the tray where I could reach what was left of the meal. His smile did not fade but there was a hard gleam in his eyes as he asked, "Do you really want to know?"

"I do." Whatever was going on could not possibly be worse than finding myself at the mercy of whoever had abducted me.

Balancing the teacup in the palm of his hand, he regarded me thoughtfully. "A previous admirer of a lady I once knew is pursuing a somewhat clumsy revenge. Fortunately for me, he possesses more enthusiasm than ability."

That might explain the brutal beating of young Veron and the riding 'accident', but it did not explain what had happened to me, and I said as much, adding, "Rupert, if you do not give me a full and complete explanation of _everything_ that has been going on, I will find a way to forget that I seem to owe you my life."

"Are you certain that you want to know?" The gleam was still there, and his smile was twisting to something unpleasant. It was too late to hope for the bliss of ignorance, and far too dangerous.

"I do," I insisted again, clutching at the tray and scowling at him over the bacon.

"Black Michael, the Duke of Strelsau to you, had a great many devoted and loyal followers. I assume you're aware of how my own service as one of those followers ended?" He added milk to his stolen tea.

"You killed him."

"Over a woman."

If he was expecting to shock me, he was doomed to disappointment. "Antoinette de Mauban."

"You've heard the story." He actually seemed darkly pleased. "A beautiful woman. She foolishly clung to a man who did not truly love her and was planning his marriage to another woman to cement his claim to the throne. She knew it, and yet could not let go of her impossible dream."

I could not, in fairness, disagree with his physical description. Antoinette de Mauban was, indeed, beautiful. I might have taken umbrage at his casual assumption that love could be turned on and off like a switch, but it was not an argument I cared to pursue. "The Duke's loyal followers are thirsting for your blood, then."

"A woman who sees straight to the heart of matters. How novel."

"It is your fault that I am feeling too unwell to attempt your murder with what is left of my breakfast," I told him, anger flaring despite my headache. "Do not mock me."

"It is equally my fault that you are here at all," he retorted, helping himself now to the bacon. "No gratitude for that?"

I gathered myself with as much dignity as I could muster. "Remove yourself from my bedchamber before I do something which I might later regret."

"For example?" He shifted on the bed, leaning forward and suddenly far too close for propriety, especially in the bedchamber of a lady in dishabille. Before I could object, his mouth brushed against mine. "Would you truly regret it?"

I pushed at him, furious that he would presume, and he responded with a second, much harder kiss - and was gone. I was left slightly breathless, with a bed full of toast crumbs and other breakfast debris, an over-turned tray and a strong desire to scream.

My brother and I had been put into danger by his actions, his secrecy and his sheer effrontery. It was unforgivable. It was easy to see why there was a list of people who wanted to see him dead.

Had the man no shame?

\--

Howard had the good sense not to ask what brought me downstairs despite my obvious headache. I curled up beside the parlor fire, wrapped in a blanket and with a book of poetry that I had no interest in reading.

"So he really _did_ kill the Duke?" Howard was still not sure he believed me, and I hadn't told him the whole of it. "I don't believe it."

"You don't _want_ to believe it," I told him crossly, tossing down my book. "He's entirely capable of it, and you know it."

"He's so, so...." Howard was groping for words, a very unusual sight. Had I less of an ache in my head, I would have paused to savor it.

"Charming." It was not a compliment. "He's a deceitful wretch - arrogant and unscrupulous as well as murdering."

Howard opened his mouth for a retort, but was interrupted by the bell. We glared at each other, at dagger points over our mutual betrayal by that charming, oh so charming, cad.

Walton appeared in the doorway of the parlor. "His Excellency, the Count of Luzau-Rischenheim, is seeking the Count of Hentzau - who appears to be out. Will you see him?"

Our glares faded to puzzled glances, but it was Howard who shrugged, rising to his feet. "Of course we will. You might mention that it's all very informal today as my sister is unwell, but he is welcome to await the Count here."

The Count of Luzau-Rischenheim appeared to be a very nervous young man, and nearly as handsome as he was uneasy. Howard's virtues include the art of putting other people at ease, thankfully, and soon he had our guest actually smiling.

I was less inclined to be charmed, having had a bad experience with a pleasant young man that very morning. In a fit of bad temper I asked, abruptly, "Are you here to shoot Rupert, Your Excellency, or to aid and abet?"

There was a very awkward silence and the Count stiffened up again as if I'd emptied a pitcher of cold water over him on a winter morning. Not content with this sally, I followed it up with, "You understand my concern, of course? Blood is terribly difficult to take out of the carpet."

"He's here to aid and abet, you blood-thirsty creature." Naturally, Rupert would choose that exact moment to make an entrance. "Cousin, this is Mme Amelia Pioche. Amelia, this is - "

"We've _met_." I gave him a frosty look.

"She's a hypocrite," Rupert told the Count, who was looking more uncomfortable by the minute. "If it were my blood, she wouldn't mind the trouble or expense in the slightest."

"Rupert -"

"Have mercy on His Excellency, Rupert." I was being terribly rude, but between my anger and the headache, I could not care. "Take the poor man away."

Howard rose hastily to his feet, reluctant to lose sight of his new friend. "I could - "

"Take Howard with you. In for a penny, in for a pound." I rose, with as much dignity as I could. "Or to make life easier for all three of you, I shall retire. Good night gentlemen - and Rupert."

It was not a dignified retreat, but I could pretend.

\--

"Everything is completely above-board, Amelia."

I didn't believe it for a single moment, and gave Howard a dark look. "Aboveboard? _Rupert_?"

"It's true! Rischenheim is trying to get the King to re-instate Rupert! Honestly, Amelia, why must you always believe the worst?" Howard threw himself down into a chair and shook his head sadly over my apparent lack of charity. This did not improve my mood.

"Really." I didn't bother to soften my skepticism. "He came all the way to Paris to argue with a King in Ruritania?"

Howard made a childish face at me. "He came to Paris to give Rupert money and to see a bit of the world. Ruritania is a small country, and Paris is a very large city."

"You mean Rupert invited him here in order to expose him to loose living and fast women?" I was determined to believe the worst, especially when it came to Rupert and women.

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence as Howard looked away. "Oh, _Howard_!"

"It's not like that!" The protest was a feeble one and he would not meet my eyes. "Rischenheim's nothing like Rupert. He's...." Howard struggled for a word. "Sheltered, I think."

I made an exasperated noise.

"I'm quite serious!" Howard sat bolt upright and leaned forward, expression earnest. "Rupert is showing him the more... fleshy delights," and he blushed as he said it, "but Rischenheim needs friends more anything, I think. Why else would Rupert invite him to the house?"

That was a very good question, but it implied that Rupert had motives that were less than entirely selfish and I wasn't ready to believe it. "So you've introduced your new friend to the usual crowd then?"

"I think that Rupert is more interested in having him taken under _your_ wing, actually."

" _What_?!"

\--

Rupert did not cross my path for over a week. Surprisingly, this did not improve my mood. Rischenheim, by comparison, was entirely pleasant company, if lacking his cousin's force of personality. I introduced him to my friends and watched him slowly shed his hunted look, even if his shyness remained.

I worried about him, truthfully. His personality was entirely overshadowed by Rupert's, and when I finally saw them together, I began to worry. At the slightest hint of direction from his cousin, Rischenheim would leap to fulfill whatever odd whim Rupert had expressed, without a thought as to possible consequences to himself.

Oddly, he seemed to bring out a protective streak in Howard. For the first time, Howard attended whatever daily social functions I chose without demur. I found myself watching them together, and it occurred to me that Rischenheim was not unlike my brother, if lacking Howard's sense of identity. Howard craved attention and blossomed beneath it, but he did not _need_ it in the way that Rischenheim did. Perhaps 'sheltered' was not as far off the mark as it might be - and the young Count was fully under Rupert's sway.

There was more to this than a simple exchange of money and a petition to the king. I could sense it, even if I could not prove it. Watching Howard and Richenheim grow ever closer, I determined to take steps to prevent the loss of their friendship.

When I finally managed to catch Rupert alone, I didn't mince words. "Whatever dastardly deeds you're planning, Rupert," and I knew I was upset, as I was beginning to sound like Howard at his most theatrical, "it would be criminal to involve your cousin. The boy is - "

"He's hardly a boy." That strange, hard glint had returned to his eyes, and I took a step back, both hands coming up between us.

"Rupert, you're well aware of what I meant, and you're absolutely not going to drag that young man into any of your destructive - "

"How do you know that they're destructive?" I had learned to read his intent by then, and I took another swift step backward as he advanced. He reached for my arm, but I moved a second time.

"Haven't you destroyed enough lives?" It came out more harshly than I'd intended, but I meant every word.

Rupert enjoys unwilling women. I should've taken a less antagonistic approach, as this time I didn't manage to evade him. Honesty demands an admission of intent on my part. I did not try as hard as I might to escape him on this particular occasion. Modesty and a touch of shame, however, prevent me from revealing exactly what followed.

I did not manage to wring a promise from Rupert, which was doubtless his intent, and perhaps I regret that most of all.

\--

Rischenheim left Paris two weeks later and Rupert departed a week after that. Not a fortnight later, I found myself mourning for a man I had thought I hated.

Rupert of Hentzau was dead, and that was all the news on that heading to come out of Ruritania given other, more shocking events. I had known it unlikely that we would ever meet again, but I had not counted on the pain that final, absolute separation would cause. As for the news itself, that was filled with headlines screaming 'Regicide'! King Rudolph was dead as well and it would have been beyond naivete for me not to realize the two events were inextricably connected.

Life went on exactly as it had before Rupert of Hentzau had appeared in our lives and I wondered, dully, if that was how it would continue to go on, interminably and somehow empty.

An invitation directed to the Hon. Howard Adock and Mme. Amelia Pioche arrived two months after that. His Excellency, the Count of Luzau-Rischenheim, hoped that we would accept an invitation to visit his estates in Ruritania.

I never returned to Paris.

When Howard decided to stay in Ruritania, I found myself also having no desire to leave. There is society enough to be found in Strelsau, if I care to make the journey, but the lands of the Count of Luzau-Rischenheim are both spacious and pleasant. I rarely leave its borders, these days.

So many, many years have passed since those few strange months, yet they remain the most startlingly vivid events within my memory. My life has been quiet and retiring, centered somehow around a man I barely knew and the country he lost and was determined to regain.

I feel pity, somehow, for Antoinette de Mauban. She never had even the slightest true connection the man she loved and I wonder if she ever realized what she lost by choosing instead to cling to that which she could never have.

I felt sorrow for Rupert, though no pity. He had chosen the opposite extreme, chasing what he could not have and sacrificing all in that pursuit. Rischenheim told me the entire story after our arrival in Ruritania, and I cannot say that it brought me either shock or surprise.

For myself, I feel only a remote, wistful amusement caused by hindsight and the passing years. I did not even know what I truly wanted until it was taken from me. The greatest of insights, it seems, comes when it is already too late.

Love makes fools of us all, though which of us is the greater I cannot say.  


   
Please [post a comment](http://www.yuletidetreasure.org/cgi-bin/comment.cgi?filename=70/betterfar&filetype=html&title=Better%20Far) on this story.

Read [posted comments](http://yuletidetreasure.org/archive/70/betterfar_cmt.html).  



End file.
